Bread dreams

I awoke suddenly and far too early, enjoying the lingering image of a ciabatta. I had baked it, sprayed it to ensure its crunchy crust, and thumped it like an expectant belly to test its readiness. I could smell it.

Bread memories are like that. English muffin bread takes me to the kitchen of my mother-in-law, who although she could barely see could turn out bread like an ancient master. Focaccia takes me to Seattle, with J., who walked me through the delights and sensory thrills of an open market. Big fish, flung onto piles by Italian men with even bigger upper arms. Not that I looked.

And so my bread moment passed. My sensation of a hearty slipper bread, calls me to put my mind at rest and create, if only for the holiday, with my hands.